Earth and Ashes - Atiq Rahimi [15]
You ask loudly, “He has received news?”
“Yes, brother, he knows.”
Then why didn’t he return to the village? No, it can’t be your Murad. It must be another Murad. After all, your son’s not the only one with that name. In this very mine there are probably ten men with his name. The foreman hasn’t understood that you’re looking for Murad, son of Dastaguir. He must also be hard of hearing. Start again.
“I’m talking about Murad, son of Dastaguir, from Abqul.”
“That’s right, brother, I’m referring to him, too.”
“My child Murad learned that his mother, his wife, and his brother have died and he …”
“Yes, brother. He even heard about you, that you … May God protect you.”
“No, I’m alive. His own son’s alive too …”
“Praise God …”
Why praise God? If only Yassin and Dastaguir had died as well! That way a father wouldn’t have had to witness the frailty of his son, and a son the helplessness of his father. What has become of Murad? Something must have happened to him. The mine has collapsed and he has been entombed in coal. Swear to God, foreman, tell the truth. What has happened to Murad?
Your eyes flit about. They seek an answer from every object: from the worm-eaten table; from the portrait in which the foreman is immortalized; from the pen lying lifelessly on the paper; from the ground that trembles under your feet; from the roof that is collapsing; from the window that will never be opened again; from the hill that has devoured your child; from the coal that has blackened his bones …
“What has happened to Murad?” you ask in a loud voice.
“Nothing, thank God, he’s fine.”
“Then why didn’t he come to the village?”
“I didn’t allow him to.”
The bundle of apples falls from your knees to the ground. Once more, your eyes search the room before fixing on the dirty lines of the foreman’s face. Once more, your mind fills with questions—and with hate.
Who does this foreman think he is? What does he take himself to be? You’re Murad’s father. Who is he? He has taken Murad from you. There is no longer any Murad. Your Murad’s gone …
The foreman’s gruff voice echoes around the room:
“He would have gone. But I didn’t let him. Had I, he would have been killed as well …”
What of it? Death would have been better than dishonor!
The servant brings two cups of tea and gives one to you and the other to the foreman. They begin a conversation. You can’t hear what they’re saying.
With trembling hands you hold the cup on your knees. But your legs are trembling too. A few drops of tea spill onto your knees. They don’t burn you. No, they do burn you, but you don’t feel it. You’re already burning within. Within, a fire burns that is more fierce than the tea. A fire stoked by the questions of friends and enemies, relatives and strangers:
“What happened?”
“Did you see Murad?”
“Did you speak to him?
“What did you tell him?”
“What did he do?
“What did he say?”
And how will you answer them? With silence. You saw your son. Your son has heard about everything. But he didn’t come for his dead mother, wife, and brother. Murad has lost all his integrity, he has become shameless …
Your hands tremble. You put the cup on the table. You know that your sorrow has taken shape now. It has become a bomb. It will explode and it will destroy you too—like Fateh the guard. Mirza Qadir does indeed know all about sorrow. Your chest collapses like an old house, an empty house … Murad has vacated his place inside you. What does it matter if an abandoned house collapses?
“Your tea will get cold, brother.”
“It’s not important.”
The foreman continues:
“Until two days ago Murad wasn’t doing well. He wouldn’t go near bread or water. He withdrew to a corner of his room. He didn’t move. He didn’t sleep. One night he went out of his quarters completely naked. He joined the group of miners who spend the night beating their chests